The Whole World's Watching
by Kungpaoshrimp
Summary: What role does an unassuming young street punk and his friends play in the coming of the Metalocalypse? Includes bums, snakes, and ninjas. Reviews are greatly appreciated, along with constructive crit Thanks for reading!
1. Chapter 1: A Not So Regular Jackoff

Disclaimer: I don't own Metalocalypse or Dethklok, but I do own Mr. "No Cash" Cabrera, and his all his homies. Enjoy.

**The Whole World's Watching**

_Drinking black coffee, black coffee, drinking black coffee, staring at the wall_

_Black coffee, black coffee, black coffee, staring at the wall..._

_-Black Flag_

Chapter 1: A Not So Regular Jack-Off

Some City, USA

So, there was Duncan Hills. Why he'd chosen this place to retreat was beyond the logic of a very hungover Karson Cabrera, who was already unnerved just being in this neighborhood. Having gone on a rather epic bender the previous night, and passing out and waking up in the park that morning, he felt he was running out of options. Why couldn't it have been the park off of nineteenth and Harris, where the odd junkie would overdose and meet their end covered in errant lawn clippings (or the occasional dog turd)? At least they minded their own business there, and a man like himself could wake up in a half drunken stupor without being stared at. No, he had woken up in a park on the other side of town. The other, _other_ side, where junkies didn't exist in the minds of the people that lived there. This was the nice side of town, where the women looked as if they might come out of catalogs, the men wore neatly pressed suits, and the children were like robotic miniatures of their elders. In fact, the whole place looked as if it were mail-order. The trees, looking every bit as plastic as the people, were neatly spaced four feet away from one another as they struggled to grow within their appointed spaces in the asphalt.

Here, it seemed everyone (and everything) had its own little cubicle designated for it among the towering office buildings, couture storefronts, and five-star eateries. Everyone had their own preordained space, except _him_, that one lowly stranger that might have just crawled out of a dumpster (or public restroom) and onto the streets where _they _conducted their everyday, structured lives. To the onlookers, a person like _that _was not supposed to be in a place like _this_, and so they stared at the offending stranger. Maybe the filth would go away if they gave it their best looks of disapproval, or a sneer composed almost entirely out of Botox. In any case, the intruder was not to be observed without a distance of at least ten feet between it and themselves. This approach seemed to have worked, as the run-down creature wielding the baseball bat stumbled into the horrible satanic coffee shop, where it most likely belonged.

Once inside, Karson slumped defeatedly against the one of the side walls, and first took in the wafting aroma of roasting coffee beans. This was a relief at first, until he took in the rest of his surroundings, becoming at once both severely alarmed and suddenly nauseated. He first noticed the patrons, which he knew at once, and took an immediate disliking to them. They were the fat, basement-dwelling, Hot Topic-gifcard-toting, maniacal fans of the World's Most Famous Band, Dethklok. They signed away their lives at their shows, lived (well, died, actually) every day according to whatever it was Dethklok did, all on Mommy and Daddy's dime and with no remorse.

He surveyed them further. Yes, more than half of them were balding, overweight, and acne ridden. The rest of them were of the younger variety, that hadn't yet matured into version 2.0, and probably never would. There were ones wearing tattoos of the candy store variety, where one browsed through them on a wall and chose his or her favored design, which also happened to be the favored design of a half a million other mindless drones with a hundred dollars and zero originality. A lot of them were also female, all with the same life-goal of fucking their favorite band member (or maybe all of them). A scarce few of them might grow older and settle for a look-alike, if they managed to dodge the increasingly tempting thoughts of suicide after rejection. None of them would ever reach menopause, however.

Looking at them now, he noticed the entire congregation of them were all reading the rag mags and tabloids littered about the place on various end tables about the band's latest financial exploits, whichever women they were "dating" (fucking) that week, or which band member was seemingly going over the deep-end lately (it changed every week). Most of reading material was probably outdated, but still kept the fans enraptured.

Much to his liking, the patrons didn't pay him any mind, as they were clearly fixated on whatever they were reading or discussing about five celebrities that simply hated them. No amount of hero worship would ever change that, no matter how hard they tried to prove their worth.

Besides law enforcement, the government, people wearing suits (or uniforms), religious zealots, the rich and the privileged, he hated this type of crowd almost as much. These were people who thought they were hard, thinking that they knew what the world was really like by following a band as clueless about the real world as they were. There was no sleeping under bridges for them, no such thing as an empty wallet, and definitely no respect for a fellow human being. All they knew was cutthroat, backstabbing admiration for a name and sound with five faces attached to it, and getting a piece of it all to themselves. A little more reflecting led him to the realization that this group might as well be lumped into that catagory he loathed better known as "Religion". Yes, the only logical conclusion was that Dethklok had it's own sect of loyal followers that revered them as modern Gods and Duncan Hills was their church and place of holy gathering. These new and groundbreaking revelations were all neatly filed into the rusting cabinet that served as Karson's memory bank, as he meandered over to a far corner away from the crowd and sunk to the floor.

The smell of coffee traversed to his sinuses once again, slightly soothing the dull throbbing in his skull, helping to clear his thoughts a little. He put his beatup Louisville Slugger to the side, a constant companion of his. He then began to rummage through his pockets in a half-hearted attempt to find some sort of clue as to what he had been up to the previous night. The one clue that needed no searching for had been trying to make its way up his esophagus all morning, and that was the remainder of the alcohol that had been left to simmer and rot in his gut. Ribs burning, he swallowed hard, making sure the acidic bile didn't find its way up into his mouth. That could wait for later. That was obvious. He had been drinking copiously the night before, and it was now seeking revenge against his innards and his brain.

"_Think. Just fuckin' think, God Dammit,_" he commanded to the organ that seemed to want to beat its way out of its bony prison with its own minature jackhammer. It took a few seconds to for it to relay a message. "_Oh, yeah. Pockets. You were checking your pockets, asshole_."

A little more digging and he came across what might have been an answer in the form of crumpled paper. He straightened it out, revealing a five dollar bill and two beer tickets for use at The Tenderloin, his favorite bar. He stared at the bill in disbelief. Money. How did he come across _money_? He never had money, at least it was never in his possession for longer than twenty four hours. In fact "No Cash" was his middle name among those that knew him. Possiblities began running through what was currently a very damaged mind. Was he panhandling again? Had he sold some fake rock again to that loser on the corner of Fifth street? Had he smoked the real thing? Stolen something expensive and pawned it? Oh, mother of all fucks! Had he sucked some other dude's dick for cash? With the last realization, the nausea hit him with full force, and it took every bit of the energy reserves he had left to contain it. Of course he would never suck a dude's dick, even at his most inebriated. He was homeless, but he was definitely not a crack head and not a junkie. At least not for four years now, and even back then, stooping that low was out of the question for him. He shuddered at the thought and rocked back into the corner, his head hitting the wall. His brain was crying in frustration now. What the fuck did he do?

It didn't matter now. After playing that little game of detective, he knew he had gotten wasted at The Tenderloin, and that the sorry looking five dollar bill was the remainder of whatever sum he had spent on last night's adventure. The reality of it was that it wasn't the first time he'd come across some money and drank it away, nor would it be the last. He took a good look at the mugshot of old Abe Lincoln, wished it were Woodrow Motherfucking Wilson instead, and decided that he needed some coffee.

There was no line as he stepped up to the counter to make his order. He looked behind the pretty barista and up to the menu, but not without checking out her rack first. He noted the breasts were most likely of the silicone variety, which was not surprising considering his current location. His next notation was that all the frappes, expressos, and "Murderchinos" wouldn't satisfy his rather simplistic tastes. Noticing that the rather haggard young man with the padlock in his ear was taking longer at ordering than usual, the girl spoke up.

"Can I make a recommendation for you, sir?", she asked cheerily, ample breasts bouncing as she turned to face the menu behind her. At least they bounced. Mr. Surgeon had done it right.

"Yeah. Coffee."

"Well, sir, we have lots of coffee here. I could suggest one of my favorites, if you're having trouble deciding." She was growing a little irritated, but was covering it up well. Her current patron looked as if he might vomit all over her at any second. Better make it quick. The man on the other side of the counter was taking his dear, sweet time and some of her patience along with it.

"Look lady, I just want some coffee. Ya know, the kind you get from a pot, and not that shit that you gotta steam 'n' shit. Ya know, like the shit people make at home. I don't want any of that fancy shit. Regular. Fuckin'. Coffee." For no reason, other than feeling completely torn up from the inside out, he'd decided his first victim of the day would be this yuppie girl with plastic tits working in an overpriced coffee joint.

She was taken aback by the man's hositility at first. She was used to the language in this place, but none of it had really been directed at her before. She was just about to suggest that he could go home and make his own damned coffee, but he looked like he might not have a home, much less a coffee maker. "Okay, well, what size would you like? We have medium, tall, and the Explosion size."

"Do ya have a regular fuckin' size?"

Regaining her confidence and trying to maintain her dignity, the barista slammed three differently sized cups on the counter for the guy to inspect. One was pretty small, the second was average, and the third was absolutely gigantic. In fact, it was likely to have drowned a whale, if whales were to drink coffee at Duncan Hills. He took a little more time than usual as he looked over each one thoughtfully, trying to piss off the poor girl even more. He then took each cup, weighed it in his hand, imagining how it would feel being carried around full of scalding-hot liquid.

"I want this one", he declared, after picking up the second, medium-sized cup.

"That's our tall cup, sir. You want one tall coffee, is that right?"

"Fuck yeah, it is."

Sighing heavily, she took the cup, filled it, and rung up his total.

"That'll be $4.50, please."

He took the drink and fisted over the crumpled, half torn five dollar bill he had weaseled from his back pocket, feeling quite a bit of remorse. She handed him his change, silently praying that she'd never see this angry bum of a guy again. He really was quite rough looking, like one of those old school punks, only less flamboyantly dressed. She could see tufts of faded blue hair underneath a beanie that had definitely seen better days.

Instead of pocketing the extra fifty cents, he slid them back to the girl at the counter.

"Here's a tip. Ain't got much to give ya, I'm afraid, but sorry for being an asshole. Hangovers, ya know."

Cautiously, she took her "tip", and nodded. She really didn't want to see this dickhead again. Ever. "Thanks."

"Anytime. I'm sure you don't get paid enough for this shit anyway," he said, glancing over at a gaggle of regulars decked out in merchandise. God forbid they run into him later, because he'd bust their teeth in, steal their lunch money, and threaten to fuck their moms.

He had surprised her with this sudden attempt at kindness, and she replied "No, no. I really don't", and tried to suppress a laugh. The regular patrons here were pretty low on the scale of intellgence and came in by the droves. It was refreshing to see someone who didn't seem to be one of them.

"You have a real nice fuckin' day, Marissa the Barista."

She had noticed him looking at her chest, but didn't think he'd actually looked at her name tag.

"Thanks, and you too, uhm... Hey what's _your_ name?"

He knew hers after all, there was probably no harm in asking.

"KC. S'been a pleasure doing business with you, fine-ass lady as you are." This was a lie (except for his name), of course, as she resembled every other blonde stick-lady in the area with unproportionally large breasts.

KC staggered out the door, off to do whatever it was that bums do on Saturday mornings. She had always thought they slept during this hour under overpasses, with their shopping carts and meager possessions, but obviously not.

KC snatched up the drink that raped him of his last bit of money as he left, at once bracing himself for the onslaught of eyeballs that would be fixated in his general direction. There they were, again. This time he returned the favor, making sure these people knew the feeling was mutual. He took a gulp of his coffee, instantly noting he had forgotten to sweeten it. The swig of coffee had been the last straw for his ailing stomach, which took offense to the hot sugarless liquid its master had offered it. It propelled its contents forward with gusto and onto a passing womans Gucci pumps. The stares became looks of pure disgust and were accompanied by gasps of horror and surprise. The _nerve _of it all!

Stomach cleared, nerves shot and fuming, KC slammed his the tip of his bat to the ground with a resounding _thwack_.

"WHAT THE FUCK YOU LOOKIN' AT?!?"

***


	2. Chapter 2: Reunions and Revelations

Disclaimer: I don't own Metalocalypse or Dethklok, but I do own Mr. "No Cash" Cabrera, and his all his homies. Enjoy.

The Whole World's Watching

_Run, but don't be scared to look behind._

_Stop, don't wait too long, make up your mind._

_The End is almost here,_

_The sky, the air, so nice and clear,_

_The sound of your decay,_

_And the ringing in the air is the sweet debris of yesterday._

_-Bad Religion_

Chapter 2: Reunions and Revelations

Some City, USA

After emptying the fermenting contents of his gut on a lady's two thousand dollar footwear and pitching a fit in front of an audience that never wanted him there in the first place, it became KC's top priority to get the hell out of that side of town. He felt rather humiliated about the whole ordeal and began to bolt down the avenue as fast as his aching joints would allow, people frantically stepping out of his wake. He needed to return to his usual haunts along with the rest of society's unmentionables, where the street numbers were smaller and the people were more inclined to mind their own damned business. His strength was finally waning. There was only so much a man could take after an all night binge doing God knows what, ending up in a place he didn't belong, and being gawked at as if he were the newest exhibit at _La Galerie_. This particular piece of artwork might be called "_Flailing Dumpster Man_", or maybe even something classy like "_Rage, with Coffee and Accent of Louisville_". His tired limbs carried him all of four city blocks before finally giving in, leaving him sitting on a curb just a little bit closer to his neighborhood of comfort. The man slumped over to gather his mental bearings, to make sure he wasn't actually falling apart, and to let his stomach offer its next batch of puke to the ground between his feet. He took off his hat, revealing a head of shaggy hair fading from blue into a multitude of greens, brassy yellows, and a little brown. Putting fingers to his temples, an inner battle of wills ensued.

"_Hey, asshole_. _You need to sleep. Somewhere that's not a park bench, or grass._"

This was the tired, throttled version of his conscience speaking to him once again. There were three entities, actually. There was the voice of Reason, the voice of Pleasure-seeking, and being a male member of the species, the Voice of The Cock that came from below. Often the latter two overruled the former, as they went hand in hand like a married couple. Today, Reason was the only one conducting the show in his current state. Thankfully, unlike most men his age, it was quite a powerful presence, but last night the voice seeking entertainment in spite of potential bodily harm took the center stage, literally leaving him on the curb. Mr. Reasonable was right. He did need to rest somewhere quiet or face further humiliation. But where? Whatever money he could have used to catch a bus was sitting next to him in the form of lukewarm coffee in a Styrofoam cup.

KC downed the coffee. While it wouldn't help his queasiness, it might lend him some needed energy and he would have an empty cup. He could use it later should some kind soul make him a donation of pity in the form of quarters, nickels, or dimes. Maybe there would be a dollar or two. The cheap-asses left pennies or lint, and the straight-up assholes left their spit. Those got the bat. He'd always tried to reserve himself some dignity, but asking for peoples' unwanted change wasn't below him. Often, he told his donors: "Thanks for your kind offering! Fuck the Salvation Army, cut out the middleman, and donate directly to the source! That way, you know where your money is _really_ going! At least I'm _honest_!" If he was feeling particularly spry, there would be a wink and a nod for added emphasis. There would be none of that kind of flair today. A simple thanks would suffice.

It was the middle of August and the ground was beginning to heat up. Concrete had a nasty way of sopping up heat, and even at this hour it was starting to get a little more unbearable as the time passed. If he chose to sit on this curb until noon or longer, he might melt and dry out from baking in the heat, very much like a pile of dog shit that turned white and crusty from sitting out in the same fashion.

Dehydrated, disgusted, and just plain wiped, he lay defeatedly on his back. The top half of his body was haphazardly strewn on the sidewalk, and his legs remained upright on the curb. Resembling a pile of sun dried dog shit didn't seem so bad after all, because he was certainly feeling like it. He might as well match. He put the Slugger over his chest and extended the arm holding the empty coffee cup in hopes that whoever stumbled over his body would at least leave some spare change if he were still breathing. If he wasn't breathing, they could kick his head in, piss on him, or draw a million pictures of dicks on his face and laugh. Whatever. He wouldn't care; he'd be dead. He put the hat back on, pulled it over his eyes to block the sun, and fell into a fitful sleep right there on the pavement.

***

"KARSON CABRERA!"

Hearing his name, he lifted his hat and made an attempt to raise a brow to see where the voice came from and who said it. It was familiar, and definitely female. He couldn't move. As expected, the sun had cooked him to the pavement and he remained fixed in the awkward position he crashed out in. The blaring sun was blocked by the girl's form, and he was grateful. He might have gone blind in addition to his temporary paralysis.

"Are you a fuckin' angel... or somethin'?"

"WHAT-ARE-YOU-DOING-HERE-WHERE-THE-FUCK-DID-YOU-GO-LAST-NIGHT?"

Oh, no. This wasn't an angel at all, but very close by KC's standards. This lovely creature was Greta Evans. She was a nursing student, and was an intern at the local Emergency Unit downtown. He'd met her on the bus a little over a year ago, and she had some sort of balls to start a conversation with him one night in October. She had been coming home from her shift at the E.R., and he was on his way to turn in for the night at the nearest squat house. She had invited him to sleep on her couch in her apartment after learning just where he was going that night. He thought she was a hooker, or just crazy. A girl like that trusting a guy like him in her apartment just didn't happen. It wasn't normal. He could have been a rapist or thief for all she knew. However, he accepted the offer that night. Nothing was stolen and the Voice of Cock was kept in check by the voice of Mr. Reason, and KC quickly found himself with a friend.

Apparently being charitable was just in her demeanor, hence her choice in careers. KC always thought she'd make a better pin up model, stripper, porn star, or cocktail waitress with her good looks. Hell, she'd probably make more money that way, but she just didn't have the sort of flamboyant personality required for that type of work. She was still a classic looking beauty, and had earned her tits and ass the old fashioned way, by possessing the right genetics and actually eating real food that wasn't derived from kelp or some sort of bean curd. He was thankful to have a kind soul to watch over him, but it was an added bonus to have one that was very easy on the eye.

Apparently she knew what he was up to last night, because she was bitching up quite a storm and prodding him with questions. She still was, after all, a typical female. That just meant she cared. He would keep telling himself that.

"I dunno, Grets. I feel like shit", was all he could muster as he flopped onto his side to face her, sending the Slugger rolling to a stop at Greta's feet.

"You look like shit. Where have you _been_ all night?"

She changed her tone, realizing he must be feeling worse than usual. He always looked perpetually hungover, but this was the worst she'd seen him in a while, and that said something. She grabbed the hand he didn't have the cup in and jerked him up. She was small, but could still manage to lift and assist patients at her job all day. Once upward, KC continued to rock forward into a slump and she had to steady him.

"Well, I just got out of class. Do you even know what time it is? ...KC?"

KC replied in the form of a dry heave. The situation was looking pretty hopeless.

"Shit. Well, it looks like you don't have any money as _usual_, so I'm gonna walk you to the stop over there and get us a bus to my place."

She heaved him totally upright, only to find that his legs were the consistency of limp noodles. He leaned heavily on her.

"_Please don't throw up on me_", she thought as he buried his head into her shoulder. He smelt like bile, coffee, traces of alcohol, and sweat. She'd be sending him straight to the shower to sober up as soon as they arrived. Then she'd park his ass on the couch where she'd explain what transpired at the bar before he got far too wasted and took off without her and the rest of the crew. They stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes until he gained his footing. She shouldered her book bag and the two of them made a very ungraceful dance towards the bus stop on the corner. It was three thirty in the afternoon and the bus would be by in five minutes where it would take them to the neighborhood her building was in. She really wished she could keep a better eye on the guy. Sure, he was homeless, and she had found out he'd done his share of shooting heroin a few years prior to their meeting, but he was rather intelligent was probably the most hygienic squatter she knew. That was quite a feat for her, having met all types of homeless people at her workplace, and finding most of them to be of a less than savory variety.

The bus ride was uneventful. Greta pushed her friend into the seat by the window and she took the aisle. Luckily, they didn't have to stand, or at every stop KC would fly into up to the front of the bus, where she'd have to retrieve him and probably tie him to one of the overhangs by the strap of her bag. Thank God for small miracles. Glancing over, she noticed him sleeping with the side of his head plastered against the window, a fresh line of saliva trailing down from the corner of his mouth. Sighing, she smacked his cheek lightly, as they were drawing nearer to their destination.

He shot up in surprise, accidentally slapping himself pretty hard in the process, whipping his head in either direction.

"Who dat?"

Slump.

Finally reaching her stop, Greta quickly gathered her belongings (and the ever present baseball bat), slung KC's arm over her shoulder and stumbled off the bus. Having him as bombed as he was and leaning all his weight onto her made her feel like she was somehow hungover as well. She definitely needed a nap. She had a rare day off from work, and she begrudgingly had to spend it sobering up the friendly neighborhood gutter punk. The four legged, four armed, she-male monster with the Louisville Slugger made its way across the lawn and up the stairs to apartment 12B without any further incidents of vomit, or accusational stares from suspicious onlookers. Such a sight was normal in this neighborhood, where college kids and crackheads were rampant on Saturday afternoons in August.

***

KC finally came to his senses after he had been kicked into the shower with his clothes on, the cold water on full blast. He hadn't remembered the last time he took a real shower. It might have been a couple weeks. He had shaved the other day in the bathroom of a public library, he knew that for sure. He pulled the curtain aside, noting the pile of mens' clothes sitting on the sink. They were Brian's, a guy from the university Greta had dated a few months before. He was alright, but KC remembered him as incredibly boring. They all were. He'd done and fucked that one up on her, or rather it was Greta letting him into her apartment that made the other guy call her a slut and storm out. It wouldn't be the first time. It took a while for her to forgive him after he'd show up to take up the vacant couch, and inadvertently run off her boyfriends.

"Hey, why you still got Brian's shit?", he called out through the door as he stepped out of his own sopping clothing and tossed it aside. She had just thrown on the cold water to wake him up.

"I have _all _their shit! Brian's, Michael's, _and_ Tyler's!", she answered back. She was in the living room, and he could hear her flipping through channels. "Might as well be yours, since you run every one of them off!"

He lathered some vanilla-scented shampoo in his hair for the second time, and watched the water become a greenish tint before going down the drain. He reached for the pink loofah and the bottle of green tea and jasmine scented body wash.

"Did he leave his razor? I got the five 'o' clock goin' on again!"

"Under the sink, behind the tampons!"

Greta was not shy about her feminine problems. He was used to hearing about all the maladies that plagued the plumbing located in her pelvic region. He probably knew more about her womanly problems than any of the guys she dated and sometimes slept with. After rinsing off, he threw a towel about his waist, and went to search for the razor. He located it behind a wall of lady-product and extra toilet paper. He examined the blade. It was a little rusted, but would do its job. As for shaving cream, all he had was the plumeria scented kind that girls used to shave their legs (and possibly other regions). Looking up in the mirror, he noticed his hair was now just an ugly shade of moldy green, with some bleached blond and brown tossed in.

"Got it!"

He splashed his face with water, lathered on the floral scented foam, and began to shave. He did it very slowly and deliberately, as if the razor would suddenly get tired of being used like a dirty whore and just go apeshit on his face.

"You know, I don't know why you have to scare every one of them off!"

Greta was still angry about something, and was letting him know by reminding him of his past offenses.

The truth was, she never _had_ to let him in. He never verbally or physically threatened any one of those guys, and she knew it. They were all insecure college boys who wanted to keep what they had thought they had the rights to, and any man in Greta's immediate vicinity was potentially a threat. She was a good catch, he would give them credit for that. He had managed to nick the side of his jaw, as he was lost in the train of his thoughts following the statement she had just made. Was he getting upset? He'd have to rile her up now.

"You know we could always-"

"No."

"Awww man, why not?"

No answer. They both knew that if they got involved with each other on a deeper level, the whole symbiotic thing they had going on would wither and die. While Greta did provide him with a place to stay, treatment for some of his ailments, and an ass for him to admire, he returned the favor in his own way. He'd give her sums of money for rent by competing in staged fights with other bums and winning, walk her to work or school so she wouldn't be abducted, and he'd write her term papers to give her some much needed rest. He tolerated the other guys, and she tried to explain why there was homeless guy staying on her couch, but none of them ever bought it and ended up leaving her. In his mind, KC thought he was providing her with another invaluable service by simply being her friend, and that was preventing her from becoming the pet of some washed up scum who was so into himself that he couldn't let his girl have any real friends. If they couldn't tolerate him, then they'd never get much further with her. He was becoming more constant in her life now. Weren't relationships about trust any way?

After he finished up shaving, he stepped out into the area that served as Greta's living room. She was parked on the sofa and was still trying to flip through the channels.

"I'm sorry I'm being a bitch, but I'm just really tired, and you freaked me out when you bailed on us after the show you guys put on last night at the 'Loin."

She was looking at him as if he knew the answer, as if what she had just said had would sound off some sort of alarm bell in his brain. Nothing.

"What show? I put on a _show_?", he questioned her with a smirk. He did have to hand it to himself. He could pull some shit out of his ass when he was drunk that could either make people laugh, cry, or put them in the nearest emergency unit.

He followed her eyes to the bass guitar sitting in the corner by the coat closet. It was his old Fender Precision. He hadn't remembered playing it for a while. It was beat up, but still sounded good, and was one of his most prized possessions. He had it stored in a unit in a building down the block from this very apartment after he had left Long Beach, and he payed for its keeping faithfully. He would never suck dick for drugs, but he would to keep that bass (not that he ever had to). Now it was mysteriously sitting in Greta's apartment.

"I fuckin' _played_ last night?"

This was new, and he was now left in a state of shock. He hadn't played after he left Sugar. Sugar was his girl back then, and she encouraged him to play again after getting him off of the needle to help him stay off. He'd played bass since he was fifteen, after running away from home and hopping trains, and had landed himself in a couple of small punk gigs. He had started shooting heroin at sixteen, and for four years he was a dead man walking until that girl Sugar found him in a gutter. He had hated her at first, as she had chained him to the radiator in her apartment for months, but once the symptoms of withdrawal left him, they fell for each other, and things got complicated. They ended up going their separate ways. However, he still never let go of the feelings he had for her, and the gift she had given him, which was life. She'd raised him from the dead. Sugar was the main reason he would never handle Greta; they were too much alike. They were both wonderfully generous, beautiful girls, with aspirations and goals beyond what he would ever think to achieve. He was far too reckless, always living in the moment, and that would never change. It was pure luck that he had stumbled onto two girls like that, but he wouldn't fuck it up by getting tied up with this one. Still, that bass hadn't been touched in two, maybe three years. It just reminded him of feelings left behind, and looking at it made him sick, so it was tucked away to be buried and forgotten. Yet, he could never truly leave it, as it was here now, and it was obviously more significant than what he had ever realized. It represented something entirely different, now. So, what was it?

"...KC?"

Greta was bringing him back to reality for the second time that day.

"Tell me what happened, Grets. I gotta know", was all he could say, his eyes still fixed on the instrument in the corner.

"Why are you getting all weird? Well, I was off today, and didn't have class until noon so we hopped over to the 'Loin about maybe eight thirty last night for a couple of drinks." She paused, trying to get her time line straight. "So, they were supposed to have this local band play, but they bailed. You were already drunk and fired up before we even got there, so you ran off to get some of your friends. You told the manager that _your_ band would be playing instead, since they had it all set up."

"But I don't have a fuckin' band."

"Right, right! I know! Let me tell you what happened. It was sooo _crazy_! Anyway, you disappeared around like, nine or so? Maybe?"

"Yeah?"

"And you came back with that bass, a girl who did drums, and this younger guy on the guitar. You told everyone else to follow you, and then basically you just had this whole punk-type thing going on. I think its punk? Anyway... You guys were _amazing_!"

She started playing air guitar or maybe air bass in some sort of mockery of what he had done that night. She sucked at it, but she was really pumped. Her eyes were already big to begin with, but they looked like big honey colored moons in her excitement.

"So then, more people started coming in, and it was getting packed in there. People basically started rioting! So, you know, the cops showed up and you started freaking out!"

"Well, hell yeah I'm gonna flip if the pigs show!" This was an undisputed fact. Law enforcement was the bane of Karson Cabrera. He'd often find himself being harassed by cops for even being in the same donut shop.

"Well, the bartender kept giving you guys drinks, so you were pretty wasted. Things were so packed in there that they needed to call for back up and crowd control. The next thing I knew, the manager handed you guys each like a hundred a piece, and you handed me your bass and like ninety dollars, and you were _gone_! I was fucking scared! They had the pellet guns and the mace and all that ugly stuff." She sank back into the couch and sighed in relief. "Lucky you did split, the cops were looking for you, after all, _you _caused the riot," she added as an afterthought.

"That's it? And I gave you ninety? I thought I did something stupid for the money and spent it on getting wasted." Well, putting on an impromptu show and causing a riot was pretty stupid, but it seemed pretty normal among some of the things he'd done for money.

He noticed the cash on the end table near the couch, and wondered what he'd do with it now that he was now ninety dollars richer.

"Well, yeah, that's it. I mean, the point is that you guys were awesome. Really good. I don't like that type of music, but wow! You totally riled everyone up! I never knew you could play a bass that good, but you sing kind of like a garbage disposal."

"What'd I sing about?", he wondered out loud. It was probably about police brutality and maybe some anti-establishment bullshit.

"Um, punk stuff?"

Yes, he had sang about police brutality and anti-establishment bullshit.

He tried to remember who he knew that played the drums and the guitar. The drummer had to be that crazy girl Gracie. She like to be called Glacier because apparently Gracie sounded too pansy, or so he'd been told. She was actually a good friend of his. The kid on guitar was probably Floyd, who loved punk music and he'd met KC on the Metro on his way to school. They'd made a connection there, but never really got to talk because they lived entirely different lives. At least Floyd had the sanctity of his parents' basement in the 'burbs. Floyd invited him over once and they fucked around with his guitars, but his parents showed up and obviously didn't like their son's new friend. He figured he'd at least have to get with the both them later and see if they could get another gig. He missed playing for the sake of playing, and could give a shit less if he made more than a few hundred dollars doing so. Who the fuck needed all that money? Oh yeah, bands like Dethklok did.

Speaking of Dethklok, reports and death tolls from their latest tour were being reported on all of the five channels Greta had on her T.V., which was why she was flipping through them constantly. Finally she gave in and turned it off, tossing the remote aside in exasperation. If there was anyone who hated Dethklok with a passion, it was Greta, who had to deal with the aftermath whenever they came into town. He did remember when they came last year, and he left city limits because of it. He remembered seeing Greta two days later, and she barely spoke a word to him. When she did come around at last, he learned that all of the concert's survivors had come into her E.R., where they were short on staff and she had the pleasurable experience of trying to hold a kid's brain back into his skull after it had been bludgeoned into two halves. He remembered what what she had told him when she finally decided to open her mouth, and it really haunted him.

"_Do you know that a_ surgeon _should have been doing that? But we didn't have one available. I'm a Goddamned nursing _student! _The whole place was full of them.__.. all these people. I held his fucking brain into his skull, and I could like... feel it _swelling_ in my hands from the trauma. I watched a fucking kid _die... in my hands, _KC. He fucking _died _and there wasn't any _reason... _he just wanted to die. They all did, they all wanted to die for _them. _What the fuck is wrong with _them?"

He had never seen her so screwed up over something she had seen at work. She was close to seeing it all, now. This had been something entirely different, though. Later she would tell him that is was like nursing the sick and the dying in a war zone, only a hundred times worse. KC never wanted to see her like that again. Really, though, what was wrong with people? Violence was a part of being human, he supposed, and he'd dealt his fair share of it. Violence for the sake of violence. However, dying for the sake of seeing one band play was just plain stupid. What was wrong with people? The world? Where was it all going? If people wanted to die at metal shows, what the fuck were people like Greta and himself even living for?

Greta was beginning to nod off, and he was starting to do the same. He took the side of the couch opposite of her.

"Hey, Grets?"

"...Mmyeah?"

"You keep that money. I wanna stay here for a while. That gonna be a problem?"

"Nope."

It was settled then. He'd have a roof over his head for couple of weeks at least, and if he could play another round with Glacier and Floyd at the Tenderloin, maybe longer. For some reason, he had a feeling in the pit of his gut that things were definitely going to change, and it was both comforting and terrifying at the same time.

***


	3. Chapter 3: Clusterfuck is Born

**The Whole World's Watching**

_I was getting pretty drunk so we went to the court_

_We brought a basketball and beer of all sorts_

_Just not enough that I would or could_

_We're just a buncha punks from the neighborhood_

_-Morning Glory_

**Chapter 3: Clusterfuck is Born**

Some City, USA

It was Monday morning when KC finally decided to find the members of a band that he had formed on a drunken whim. He lovingly referred to it in his mind as his "Friday Night Donut Social", due to the amount of police that showed up to break up all the rioting. The event had made that morning's news, and quite naturally the local underground music scene began writing reviews of the "band" and their performance. There were quite a few venues that opened their doors to local musicians and bands, and if they were good enough, they were reviewed and published in weekly newsletters that catered to the scene. The Tenderloin was one of those places, and happened to be a goldmine for those seeking recognition. All the best locals showed up there, and it was one of the roughest bars on that side of town. It also just so happened to have it's own magazine, _The Loin Cut , _which was probably the most recognized and well respected in the area. Before actually locating anyone, he decided to stop by the 'Loin for two reasons. First of all, he wanted to know if he was going to be able to throw any more "Friday Night Donut Socials" at the place. Friday night's extravaganza may well have caused some extensive damages to the building, and since he was responsible for the most part, he might not be allowed back. Greta had said the band had been "_really good_". However, Greta was the last person on earth to give a really solid opinion of the type of music he played. After all, she listened to Bubblegum Pop and dated frat boys. As much as he adored her, there were certain things that she just didn't understand. One of those things happened to be the type of music that caused people to get violent.

The second reason was that KC wanted to see if Glacier, Floyd, and himself had actually made into the _'Cut_. It wasn't every day a band caused an all out riot and made it out unscathed, unless they sucked so badly that the riot was directed onto the band themselves. Sometimes that happened. When the cops made their appearance, KC tore out of the place with such fervor that he never really discovered what had become of his band mates. Greta hadn't told him what had happened to the other two, as she had made it out very shortly after he did and wouldn't have known any way. They might have been pummeled alive for all he knew, or in jail. He figured if he could just stop by and check in on the place, he'd find more answers. If he weren't allowed back in, it would leave him a bit remorseful. This was one of his favorite haunts and the owners knew his face quite well, and he would have hated to be the cause of destruction to a place he often called a sanctuary.

When he made it down the corner to the hole-in-the-wall bar, he stepped in with bated breath and braced himself for banishment. It was dark and quiet in the place, as it should have been at that time of day. KC had to squint hard as his eyes adjusted from the morning sunlight to the more subdued lighting in the bar. Everything looked normal, at least as he had last remembered it. It was oddly decorated with old band posters, lanterns made from liquor bottles (varying from Skyy to Patron), red lights strung up over the bar, and lots of random pieces of art that patrons had put up there to sell. Lovers' names were carved into some of the walls and tables by patrons, along with some less tasteful phrases such as "_Shannon sux dick and wil give u hot carls_" or "_Kyle has whisky dick_". Some of these were accompanied by phone numbers. Some people left stickers on the table, mostly from punk, metal, and alternative bands. "_Dethklok_" was one of those bands, and the band's name adorned many different areas in various fonts. These were all normal, but there were some new carvings, and even some spray paint up along the walls. One particularly large one etched into a table said "_NoCa$h 4eva!"_ . "No Cash" was one of his own monikers, and KC was quite sure he wasn't the one who had written it. It was new, and he found his eyes drifting past the liquor-lanterns and the bar only to see the words _**CLUSTERFUCK**_ spray painted in bright red letters across the back wall of the area that served as the stage. The letters of the graffiti were almost as large as KC was tall, and nearly encompassed the entire wall. He knew every inch of the place so well that he might have well just lived there, and these new decorations were alien to him. Something big had happened.

No one who worked there seemed to be around the main floor, so he called out to see if someone would come out from the back. At this time of day, Tim (the owner) would probably be doing the prep work for the night crowd. Sometimes an alcoholic would breeze in at this hour in need of something to wet his whistle, and Tim would be around to provide that sort of service. Other than that, he stayed in the back and got the joint ready for the night patrons, unless someone rang for him up front. It was eleven in the morning, and even the random heavy boozer wouldn't be in for at least another hour or so.

"Tim, you there, dude?"

KC heard the office door creak open, and out came Tim. He was in his forties, and aged quite well. He was a skinny, stringy dude, but could still bounce if the situation called for it. Hardly anyone fucked with Tim.

"Hey, you! You almost got me fined, kid!"

Instead of sounding angry, he had a bit of a bemused tone. He had a deep gravelly voice that was most likely the result of thirty-some-odd years of chain smoking.

"Fuck... Shit. I'm real sorry bro. I got too fuckin' drunk. I'll make sure it won't happen again. If there's any damage, I'll work it off or something. _Fuck_, man. I'm real fucking sorry for that shit I pulled on Friday." This was all KC could come up with in apology to the older man.

"Sorry? You're fucking _sorry_? I haven't seen a band like that play in a long fucking time. You got something good here, Cabrera. Sure, you almost fucked up my bar, but I got that taken care of. I got my ways around that type of shit. And there were more cops here on Friday than flies on a pile of shit, but that was something, bro! I dunno what it was, but... it was fucking _something_. We want you here again. Friday, if you can make it. Bring me a show like that again, and you can consider it your payment."

KC didn't know what to say. Nothing could be said. He hadn't remembered what he had even played that night, due to the effects of whatever had been drinking that night.

Then he remembered Glacier and Floyd. What happened to them? Surely, they weren't throttled as he had initially thought?

"I gotta find my drums and guitarist, first. What happened to 'em?"

Tim lit a cigarette and tossed him the latest issue of the _'Cut. _ "Fuckin' bailed right after you did. Swift thinkin', dude. Unfortunately... for me, I had to clean up you guys' mess."

"You want us to clean up after ourselves, then?", KC inquired after eyeballing Tim's cigarette. "Can I bum one a those?"

Tim tossed him a Pall Mall and a lighter. "Are you even looking at that rag I tossed ya? You're on the front fucking page. All you guys."

So it was. There were all three of them, with KC up front with his bass and also on the mic, Glacier hammering the drums, and Floyd was off to the side looking a little nervous on guitar.

In front of the stage was the swarm of people already starting to riot. Whoever took the picture was probably standing on a table in the back in order to capture the whole scene.

Under the picture was a short article, written by the one and only Maxwell "Moody" Arlington. He was always the one who wrote about the bands that happened to grace the cover of _The Loin Cut_. Max was always chosen to write for those bands because he was rather unbiased and was open to a wide variety of sounds. If a band was particularly terrible, he would write about them in a column in the back, "_The Panel of Shame_". There he would mock them accordingly. While there were no actual ratings of the bands that played at the 'Loin, anyone that graced the cover was pretty much guaranteed to be a crowd favorite and anyone in the back was quickly forgotten.

He began to read the article.

_**CLUSTERF**K **_

_August 8th, 2009_

_After Milkmen Mayhem bailed out on us on Friday night, an unexpected and pleasant surprise took their place in the from of Clusterfuck, the newest band in the local underground scene. They've got a good old school punk sound, but seemed to have upped the bass guitar and the drums. Karson "No Cash" Cabrera is their angry front-man, and is also behind that thundering bass. Gracie "Glacier" Wolfe delivers on drums, and Floyd McAllister adds a bit of subtlety to the sound on guitar. Altogether, they make a great mix, and it seems Mr. Cabrera is out to seize the world with his gripping lyrics. Unfortunately, their show was cut short due to the amount of rioting. People seemed to have gotten a little bit pumped after this gig! Congratulations, guys. We hope to see you again soon! _

_-Moody Max _

He flipped the 'zine over to the back, for curiosity's sake.

_**Panel Of Shame:**_

_**Milkmen Mayhem**_

_August 8th, 2009_

_You guys suck so bad, you didn't even show! At least you guys know it. You'd do better not to ever book again! Looks like your replacements delivered full force! Congrats, you fucking losers!_

_Your Friends,_

_Tim and Moody Max_

Tim noticed that KC had stopped reading. "Ya like that, dude? You're the fuckin' man, now! You and your crew."

"Sounds good to me... But hell, I was so wasted I don't even know how I even pulled that shit together. Seriously."

The younger man folded up the paper and stuffed it in his back pocket.

"You'd better find out, real quick, or you ain't comin' back here.", Tim said. There was an edge in his voice. He meant what he said.

As he was turning to leave, KC thought of what it would be like not have this place of refuge and replied to Tim's threat. "Guess I'd better get it together, then."

However, the older bartender wasn't done talking to him yet.

"You know, we had a lot of bands come through here. Been here a long time." He dragged on his smoke, making the cherry glow even brighter in the dim light.

"A lot of guys that make the cover of the _'Cut_, they make it _big_. Some bigger than others... but big all the same. If you got any sense in that skull of yours, kid,

you'll follow through. Maybe you won't be living in a squat or sleeping on a bench for the rest of your life."

In all his life, KC never thought he'd have the option of actually living somewhere that was his own. He didn't want anything fancy, just somewhere to call his own, a place to make music and somewhere warm. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be huge, but at least maybe he would be _somebody _in this crazy world. No, there would be no dragon-castles in the sky, endorsement deals, and hopefully he wouldn't end up in the tabloids. He just wanted to be more than a cockroach hiding in the kitchen cabinet of society.

Tim piped up again, "You know something funny?"

"What's that?", KC asked, mildly intrigued.

"This place has been around, like I told ya. I've only owned it maybe sixteen years? And there has only been one other riot in this place that was better'n yours and that was when Dethklok came by. They were big... not a big as they are now, sure as shit... But they stopped by to drink and do a gig. This was before they replaced their first rhythm guitarist with that Norsky kid they have now. He didn't come along until they were huge... Kid's a lot younger than the rest of 'em. Anyway, we had a riot so bad that people were getting bludgeoned and stabbed 'n' shit."

This was quite a surprise to KC. He never really thought about Dethklok in their early days. He felt rather dumb about it, because everyone started somewhere.

Tim crushed out his cigarette, which was down to the butt. "They were actually pretty cool guys. I think the fame went to their heads. Yeah, definitely did."

KC wasn't really fond of where the conversation was going. He didn't want to end up being an asshole. Not ever. He briefly wondered how on earth Tim still kept his bar after a stint like that. "Dude, I gotta go... find my crew, you know... But, I gotta ask, how the _fuck_ do you still have this place if people were murdering each other in here?"

Tim gave him a toothy yellowish grin.

"They got one fucking _hell _of a manager."

***

After bumming a few more smokes off of Tim and taking a few more copies of the _'Cut,_ KC was on his way out to find his Drummer. Glacier would be the easier one to locate, since she didn't go to high school at this hour like Floyd and worked at the local good will store, and she would most certainly be there today. She would often let KC sort through an endless variety of donated flannel shirts and let him take the ones he liked the best, but not after washing them first. Sometimes people got lazy while donating their unwanted apparel and donated the vomit and piss stains along with the clothing. He got his beloved black beanie from her, as well. They got on quite well, although he made the mistake of taking refuge in her apartment one night. It happened to be the city's Roach Motel and there were bowls and other stuff in the sink that were half-full of rotting food and colonies upon colonies of writhing maggots, making whatever it was they were living in undulate in waves. He wondered what she paid to rent the place, because cleaner lodgings might be found in a dumpster. He would be the one to know; he'd camped out in dumpsters before.

Good Will was a few blocks over from The Tenderloin, and with some luck, he'd find the girl on her lunch break. After a trek down the block and a stop a convenience store to pilfer a soda, he found himself in such luck. Glacier was around back smoking. Her hair was a shock of neon purples and pinks, with some stark white thrown in for good measure. Half of it had been shaved, but had grown out, leaving her with a caricature of an asymmetrical bob. Also for good measure, her large bosom was hanging out of a leopard print halter top. She had a paw print tattooed on each tit, and she liked to show them off. She rounded out the look with some hot pink skinny jeans and a pair of black wedgie sandals. One might have considered it her "summer ensemble". The winter one might have included a furry coat, and the sandals were replaced with some kind of boots to rival her coat.

Glacier noticed him approaching, and nearly exploded in excitement at the sight of him, flung her half-smoked cigarette behind her and flung herself at him.

"Homan, I thought ya were in _jail_!", she cheered, not letting him out of her embrace. She talked kind of like a floosey, with some sort of other dialect thrown in. She was tiny, and most of her body weight probably dwelt in her chest region. She was a blessed freak of nature (and of society).

"Likewise", KC replied, prying himself from her iron grip.

"Naw, I got outta there when you shot off." She was patting his hair in a disapproving manner, as it was a nasty green-blond instead of a dark marine blue. "Ya nevah come see me no more.", she remarked with a pout. "Ya should go down ta see Shaniqua. Ya know she'll fix it for ya! Lookit mine!" She ran her fingers through her multicolored locks.

Since she was talking about hair, he just fisted over one of the copies of the magazine Tim had given him. She took one look at the and started laughing maniacally. "Hoshit! Forreal? _US_? Ya know we really were a clustahfuck ya know!" She paused and skimmed through the article. "Hofuck! Is this _great _or what? Also, I look pretty fuckin' great in that pitchah!"

"Hell yeah, it is! Tim wants us there... this Friday. Can you make it? I still gotta find Floyd."

It took her a moment to come back to reality and remember that Floyd was their guitarist. "Floyd... Floyd. _Floyd_. Hoyeah. He's that schoolkid friend a yours right? Got green hair like the Lady Liberty?"

"That'd be the guy.", KC sighed. Sometimes Glacier could be air headed. She was always daydreaming of some sorts. He wondered how a person could be so out of it without ever doing drugs.

"Boy, I gotcha covered. I can find him for ya. He comes around here pretty often. Looks for them flannels, like you do."

"Uh, how often? 'Cause we need to throw this shit together by friday night. That's four fuckin' days and I ain't got time to wait."

He had a lot to do in that small time frame, and waiting for Floyd to just pop up wasn't going to work in their favor. He had to write out lyrics for at _least _five songs, report back to Tim that the band was _indeed_ going to show on Friday, and find some way to help Greta with one of her papers.

She lit up another stick. "Like, _tomorrah_ kinda often. He comes up here _every_ Tuesday to shoot the shit 'n' stare at my puppies."

With that, she exhaled. "Ya really are worked up with this aint'cha? Wanna smoke?"

Knowing full well he had quite a few cigarettes already, he took up her offer. Karson Cabrera wasn't one to turn down charity. He lit one up and handed her her lighter back. "Yeah I'm worried about this shit. C'mon! We got a _chance_, and that shit was fun as hell... before we got busted, yannow? Besides, if we don't show, I'm not allowed back in the place. Like, ever again."

She smiled at him devilishly. "Ya _really_ like that place don'tcha? Yannow, ya can _always_ stay at _my_ place. I gotta _TV _now! Speakin' of, Where _are_ ya stayin', toots?"

Awkward. He had been at Greta's for two days now, and he was hoping that landing these gigs would allow her to keep housing him. Glacier always acted like she was totally into him, but being a little flirtatious was second nature to her. Everything between them was strictly platonic, and it was the same with Greta as well. It came as a shock to him that Glacier didn't like the other girl, who had seemingly done nothing nothing to Glacier, who had met her only once. The female species were mysterious in their hierarchies.

She knew what he was thinking, and remarked that he was probably staying with _her_ again. "Ya really like her don'tcha? Ya _really_ do. Ya ain't _never _gonna admit it are ya?" she asked earnestly.

KC had no choice but to admit it. He _did_ like the girl, but he wasn't her type. He sighed and exhaled a cloud of smoke. " So, I like her a little bit. A _little _bit. She's an alright girl. She's not a slut or anything. So, what you gonna do about it? You like me like _that_, is that why you hate her?"

Glacier stubbed out her cigarette and ruffled the man's hair with a smirk. "Break's ovah. I gotta go let Floyd know about this when he stops by tomorrah. And I believe ya got some shit ta do, too. And I'm _not _hatin'. If I were a lesbo, I'd be on it too, yannow?"

She turned and opened the door leading into the building behind her. "Alla us, here. Tomorrah, aftah my shift at seven. Comprende?"

"Comprende."

He watched her disappear into the building, and stood there for a small moment, feeling quite strange and overwhelmed at the same time. Did a woman just goad him into revealing his feelings about another woman? Even so, he had other business to attend to. His own feelings didn't matter at the moment. He was on the edge of something huge, he could feel it from the time Greta had told him what he did on Friday. They were all in for something life-changing, good, bad, possibly in between. A small tingle of energy seemed to buzz at the base of his feet, traveling up to his core, and the young punk sprang back toward the Tenderloin at full force.


	4. Chapter 4: KlokaKiller

**The Whole World's Watching**

_All thoughts are in place_

_All deeds are complete_

_Play, theme for a jackal play__**...**_

_-The Misfits_

**Chapter 4: Klok-a-Killer**

Mordhaus

It was Pickles the Drummer who was designated to get the mail as of late. Usually, one of the Klokateers got it for them. However, there seemed to have been a strange shortage of them lately. Many things happened in the 'Haus, and dead and missing Gears were among the most common, therefore it was ignored for the most part by the members of the band that resided in the modern-day castle. The numbers of them dying, however, were not. Dethklok's manager, a certain Mr. Charles Offdensen, had explained that he had ordered the remainder of them to be used to heighten security until they could figure out the cause of so many of them randomly kicking it in. He had explained this to the band all at another one of their meetings, and also as usual, he didn't expect that his message would set in all that well. Another point that he was trying to make was that the boys really _could _do things for themselves. After all, they had managed to live without being under his wing for nine months. Charles had just told them they _might_ want to learn how to make coffee, or _possibly_ throw their empty liqour bottles away, or make their beds. These were things that could be done without putting the band in jeopardy, if whatever or whoever was killing off all the handimen had a member of Dethklok in their sights as well. However, it was the bassist, William Murderface who was the first to object to these types of activities.

"You want usch to juscht go out and do all that schtuff? What if we _die_? I bet they'll kill me _firscht_!", he whined, stabbing his new medieval dagger into the table.

No one else was listening to the man. They never did. "You all would juscht _love_ it if I _died_, huh? That'sch okay. _I'll_ be the brave one. I'll go get the _mail_!"

The mailbox was quite far away from the main fortress, past all the yard wolves and other obstacles, and was just another cause of death for the Klokateers who had been appointed to that job.

"Noes, I wants to gets de mails!", piped up Dethklok's rhythm guitarist, Toki Wartooth. His eyes were lit up enthusiastically. He never got to do anything cool, or something that risky.

Another wrinkle formed on Charles' forehead. "I'll get the mail. I'd be more than happy to get the mail.", he sighed. He wanted to call this one short. These murders (he was sure that's what they were) were at the top of his to-do list and he wanted to find the cause and get it all over with. "_Just another road bump. It'll be taken care of. Yes, it will.", _he thought to himself for the millionth time since all this had been happening.

"We'ds coulds sends of eidder of dems dildoes to gets de mails, 'cause deys boths usekless anyways." This, of course, was Skwisgaar, the (world's fastest) lead guitarist, speaking. He had been napping in his seat until mail was mentioned. He then fell asleep again, fingers absently twiddling at the strings of his Gibson Explorer, a puddle of drool forming on his shirt.

Nathan Explosion sat in his usual position at the table, looking very disinterested. There was a show coming on about ladies in prisons, one of his favorites. The lead singer loved it when they choked each other out with their bras and panties and when they made shanks out of spoons and knitting needles. It was brutal. He was pretty pissed at being called to a band meeting this late in the evening, and he was missing out on his scheduled programming and his alcohol. The solution to the mail was simple. The other shit could be dealt with later.

"Uh, lets just... not get the mail. Most of it's not, uh... that important.", Nathan grumbled. He was thinking about all the subpoenas, traffic tickets, court summons, more bullshit endorsement deals (they had tons), pornography (again, tons), and bills. Definitely not those fucking bills.

"So... uh, yeah. No mail."

"Nathan, we still have to get the mail. There's things-" Charles began before he was cut off by Toki.

"I WANTS TO GETS DE MAILS! _I CAN GETS DE MOTHERFUCKINGS MAILS_!!! I _NEVER _GETS TO DO ANYTHINKS _IMPORTSTANTS_!"

The young Norwegian's face was growing red, and he had half-risen out of his chair to shout at everyone and no one in particular. His tantrums were becoming more frequent as of late. Charles briefly considered letting him do it for once. He also began carrying a taser, should the kid get more out-of-hand than usual.

Murderface wasn't one to be outdone, especially by Toki. "You don't get to do anything becausch you schuck at it!", he spat back.

"FUCKS YOUS MOIDAFACE! I CANS GETS IT BETTER DENS YOUS EVER COULDS! YOU KNOWS IT!"

He was now leaning across the table at his challenger, knuckles turning white from his grip on the edge of the wood.

Dethklok's bassist was full of ammo. "AW, FUCK _YOU_, TOKI. YOU CAN GO SCHUCK... I DUNNO, LIKE A MILLION DICKSCH!"

"YOUS AMS DE ONES WHO AMS ALWAYS THINKINKS ABOUTS DEM DICKS!" Toki really wanted to get this one. He began to climb up on the table, reaching behind him to grab his chair to use as a bludgeon. Murderface muttered something about Toki wanting Skwisgaar's dick, until Pickles spoke up.

"Dood, I'll jest git tha mail. Dere. Fixed." He was coming down from yet another high that day and needed to get it back again.

"Yeeah, I'll jest git it. I mean C'mooon, _I do drugs_. If I were gunna die er somethin', I'd just... die... _high_. Yeeah. Wouldn't even knoow. Yannoo?"

A vein was beginning to bubble at the corner of one of Charles' temples. He pushed up his glasses and began to rummage in his coat pocket for the taser he had on him. Murderface and Toki were drawing nearer to one another from across the table and were ready to draw blood. Losing a drummer to a hungry yard wolf was not a possibility. He'd just have to get there before Pickles. However, if Pickles' offering kept the others quiet for the time being...

Apparently, Nathan liked this idea, too. "Yeah, that's a good idea, Pickles. Uh, yeah. Pickles gets the mail."

When it was Nathan suggesting something, it was always a good idea to listen. He was their unspoken leader, and everything came down to him, unless it was so unrealistic that Charles had to put a stop to it. Toki put down his chair, and shot everyone a look of dejection before jumping off the table, stalking out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

"Hey, Skwischgaar, looksch like _schomebody'sch _gonna be drinking tonight. He'sch gonna need a _babyschitter_.", nagged a very satisfyed Murderface, who was now poking the lead guitarist awake on his way out the door.

Skwisgaar frowned at this but said nothing. Since Pickles was the one getting the mail, he would be teasing Toki about it later. So what if he was drinking like a fish at the time? It made the job of babysitter more bearable.

Charles stood to leave, but not before Pickles informed him that one of the Gears had been cleaning up the empty liquor bottles for months now. Sometimes, the guy remembered things even when his brain should have been reduced to swiss cheese due to his excessive drug use.

"Ah, Okay then. I'll tell whoever it is to stop, once I find out."

Murderface was again the first to comment on this. "_I'm_ not cleaning that schit up. _That _can be Toki'sch job."

Skwisgaar agreed, adding, "Dis ams dildoes, buts I's nots to be dat guy what's makes de coffees, 'cause... 'cause, wells... I ams nots goinks to be doing dats. Toki cans haves all de jobs... makes hims feel mores importskants. Ja, gives hims alls de jobs." After he concluded his thoughts, the tall blond man sauntered out of the room with his guitar, most likely to find someone or something to fornicate with. With any luck, that someone or something would be old, very large, or both.

Nathan was already on his way out the door as well.

"Yeah. Uh, Pickles gets the mail. Toki does... Toki does that other stuff."

***

As he stormed through the corridor to his bedroom, Toki heard a dull thud in the distance behind him. It was probably one of Skwigaars beloved FBLs, flopping herself down on his bed for some good hard lovin', and so Toki thought nothing of it. After all, his fellow Scandinavian band mate's room was down that way and it was almost a nightly thing. He had totally forgotten about their manager's information about gears randomly dying in droves just a few minutes prior, as he was still angry about not getting what he wanted. Being several years younger than the rest of them, he was never entrusted to do even the most trivial things by his elders and it infuriated him. Toki believed he could probably accomplish a little more than most of them. After all, he _did _know how to make coffee. However, since everything was handed to him, the oppertunity never presented itself. They _always_ appointed him the shittiest jobs, like goading him into being a male stripper for a month when they were going hungry. He hated it, but did it anyway, and he didn't see any of them getting that much cash in during that time. So, after entering his room he concluded that he would indeed be making the coffee. For himself. Fuck the rest of them. Toki Wartooth was indeed becoming more and more fed up with their bullshit, especially Skwisgaar's, who had been laying it on extra thick lately about his "dildoes" guitar playing. It wasn't his fault he wasn't born with OCD and unnaturally long fingers.

He began rummaging through his desk to locate the bottle of vodka he'd stashed there a few days ago. There came another thump in the hallway, this one much louder and nearer to his room, and it gave him a such a jolt that he ended up bumping his head on the desk's lamp.

"Owwie... What de fucks?", he muttered to himself before stepping out in the hallway to investigate, leaving the door open behind him. Those full-bodied ladies of Skwisgaar's never came down _his _way.

The first thing Toki noticed was that it was darker than usual. Someone had cut the lights, he was sure of it. The hall had been lit just a few moments ago. What the fuck was going on? He squinted in the darkened corridor, finally locating what looked like a black heap on the floor. He stepped toward further. It was a Klokateer.

Toki's heart skipped a beat or two, and he whirled around, flying back to the safety of his bedroom, locking the door behind him. Forgetting about the bottle of Vodka for the time being, he began to search for his Dethphone. He hardly ever used it, because it hurt his face, but he had to get ahold of Charles. Sure, he had been _told_ the Klokateers were dropping dead, but he had never seen them until now, at least not under these circumstances. Someone had cleaned them up before they were seen. It was either Charles, or... or whatever was killing them. Whatever it was, it was in his general vicinity.

Toki was trying hard not to panick and thought of Charlie and his phone. Charlie fixed _everything_.

***

Charles Foster Offdensen was brooding at his desk, trying to find out who or what was killing off his employees. He had removed the bodies himself, and had them taken to the coroner at St. Necrophagist Hopsital for examination. There were several hundred of them in the past couple months since he'd come back from hiding after staging his own death. Really, he didn't need such complications after what he'd discovered in the nine months of his absence. A certain General Crozier was mustering troops to plot the band's demise as well as his own, and knowing that kind of information tended to put a few more gray hairs on his head. Crozier was a crooked man, the kind that politicians looked to for advice on how handle things like foreign and domestic policy, but Crozier's policy almost always involved violence. He wasn't beyond jumping through hoops and dodging the very laws he was supposed to uphold to get what he wanted, and it came as no surprise that he had hired that metal-masked man to ruin the empire Charles and his boys had helped create. Violence was nothing new to Charles, as he resorted to it himself and the band he managed helped cause it in mass quanities. However, when such was directed at him and his own, it was _unacceptable._

He straightened his glasses and rubbed the ache in his temples before pouring over the stack of necropsy reports. Most of the Gears had small lacerations or punctures along with severe necrosis on the sides of their necks. The holes were varying in number from one to four, and always on the left side. Others were simply gutted down the back, torso, or their heads were severed in a very clean manner. He couldn't have made cleaner cuts if he had done so himself. The ones with the small marks appeared to have struggled or seized before they died, and he had toxicology reports run on those. All of the reports came back with the same complex of toxins, unique only to snake venom. The particular compound of venom in question had been consistent with that of a West African Gaboon Viper. He was intrigued by this, because in addition to having a murderer in Mordhaus, there was also a very deadly serpent (or possibly more) residing there as well. A bit of research led him to discover that the particular species of snake in question had a high venom yield and relatively small amounts of it were needed to kill a person if injected directly into the bloodstream. That was why these punctures were always in the area of the neck; the cartoid arteries were located there. The reason they were on the left side was easy enough to distinguish because this person was using a glove or some other device to adminsiter the venom on their left hand. The person carried a sword or some other kind of blade with their right. It was archaeic, almost. What intrigued him the most, however, was that this person could have easily killed off any member of the band, as haphazard as the boys were. Why hadn't that happened? Was this some cruel little game being played to taunt him until it finally happened? Charles had enough of wondering. He'd have to gather his precious boys and herd them all together in a safehouse, their freedom be damned. Mordhaus was dark and expansive, and that element was being used against him. The killer could be anywhere...

The phone on his desk let out a shrill ring, shaking him out of his current pattern of thought. It was Toki's Dethphone. The kid hardly ever used it and he had stormed off again in another fit of rage. When he picked up the reciever, there was no one on the other line. Something just wasn't right and needed his immediate investigation.

***

Toki had just managed to dial Charles when he was suddenly straddled from behind, a small gloved hand clapped over his mouth. A small, feminine voice quietly told him to hang up the phone in accented English, although it was better than his own. He dropped the phone, because the intruder was weilding one sharp looking sword in the other hand. Toki was certain this was a girl, at least the person talked and smelt like one, and she was pretty light on his back.

"Very Good", said the voice. It was deadpan.

Then the person slipped around to face him.

It was indeed a girl. An Asian girl, probably younger than him. She was clad in black, and he reconigized her for what she was immediately. A ninja. There was the mask, the split-toed boots, the sword, everything. He'd never seen a ninja before, only in movies. Toki never thought about them actually existing before.

"Boo," spoke the lips behind the mask. She slowly pointed the sword up to his neck, backing him up against the wall.

Toki was on the verge of vomiting, and fresh beads of sweat were forming around his hairline. "Ninja-Goil, Ams... Ams you gonna kills me now?", he gulped.

"No. I had to hide in here," Ninja-Girl began. "But now, I have to leave. _Offa-dan-san_ is coming soon. You called him."

She started backing away. "I have business with all of you, but not now," she waved the sword for emphasis. "If he catches me, he'll kill me and you all will die, too. Forget your black-mask-men, they're worthless any way. If you tell him you saw me, I'll kill you and all of your friends."

Toki swallowed hard and nodded. "Yous nots gonna hoirt us, dens?"

She was slowly edging out the door. "I won't... if you do what I told you. I've been here a long time, a little after they blew up your Dragon-House. Very sorry about your... mail duty, too... but I have to go."

And then she was gone. The young man swung his head out of the doorway, but she was really gone. He turned around in the other direction, only to see Charles stooping over the first dead Klokateer in the hallway. Noticing Toki's head hanging out the door, the older man called out to him.

"You find out who did this, Toki?"

Toki hesitated for a minute. He thought about what the girl had told him about all of them dying if she did. Immaturity overruled his reason, and he decided that after all, he knew something _nobody _else did.

He decided to lie through his teeth. "Noes, just... dats I founds dems. Out deres. Ja, dats all. Kinda scaries."

"Ah, yeah, it is kind of scary, isn't it?", Offdensen asked, rather blandly. He was never one to overreact. "You keep an eye out."

"Yeah, I wills. I's justs goingks to hangs out, goes to bed maybes. G'nites, Charlies."

Charlie. It was rather endearing to Offdensen, coming from Toki, but he would never admit it. He remembered bailing the battered kid out of his parents' religious hellhouse in Norway, after all.

"Night, kid."

When he was sure his manager was gone, Toki remembered the Vodka in the drawer. He was still pissed off about the mail. Speaking of, the ninja knew about it, so she had to have been watching them very closely all night. He wondered what other things she saw, and suddenly felt sorry for her if she had happened to see something horrible like Murderface naked. He shuddered. What if she saw _him_ naked? Then, he felt a little creeped out. He fell onto his bed and stared up at his model airplanes, unscrewed the cap of the vodka and took a swig. Maybe he would make the Ninja-girl coffee, too. Did Ninjas even like coffee?

***

The next day, Pickles retrieved the mail in another drug-induced haze without any incident of yard-wolves or other unfriendly things. Charles had been up all night investigating the last two deaths, and had actually ended up almost falling asleep at his desk before retiring to bed. He woke up an hour later than usual, much to his chagrin. He was relieved to find out Pickles was okay when he discovered him rummaging through the piles of mail.

The Irish-American drummer was quite happy to have gotten the mail today. He subscribed to various underground music magazines, varying from Glam-rock, metal, alternative, and everything inbetween. He always got them late because he used a P.O. box, and then had them forwarded to the 'Haus for secrecy's sake. Pickles loved music as much as he loved mind-altering substances. Among the magazines he got was the latest issue of the _The Loin Cut,_ a magazine he liked because he was in it _twice_. The first was in his Snakes 'N' Barrels days, and the second was in a very young Dethklok, when Magnus was their rhythm guitarist. They always had interesting new bands to showcase and most of them were good. The band on the cover of this issue was a punk band. This was a pleasant surprise, as he enjoyed punk in his earliest days and was glad to see it wasn't dead. He stared at the picture on the front. People were rioting around this angry kid and his bass. A bass player slash lead singer? Pickles chuckled to himself. "_Better naht let Murderface see dis one. Might go ta his head! "_

"Clusterfuck? Sound's good ta me.", he murmered aloud, before retiring back to his room.

***

Toki had woken up earlier than the others, making himself a pot of coffee, to wear off some of the effects of the vodka he drank the night before. After pouring himself a cup, he remembered his encounter the night before, and poured another cup. Not knowing if Ninjas liked sugar or cream, he left a small bowl of each beside the cup and set it all on top of one of the Gargoyles in the the main hallway. When he returned a few hours later, much to his amusement, he found the sugar half-used and none of the cream with an empty cup.

When he picked up the empty mug, he found a small paper bird inside. A crane. He unfolded it, revealing a message written in neat, slanted, print.

"_Arigato!_

_(That Means Thank You in Japanese)_

_My name is Makkuro."_

Smiling to himself, he tried pronoucing her name. The closest thing he could come up with was "_Mackerels_".


	5. Chapter 5: Lucky Strikes

**The Whole World's Watching**

_LOVE BRILLIANT SCARS  
PAINT A BRILLIANT TOMORROW  
SING A BRILLIANT SONG FOR MYSELF_

_-X Japan_

**Chapter 5: Lucky Strikes**

At the peak of morning, night giving in to the emerging day, Makkuro crawled stealthily from the rafters in the large common room to find coffee waiting for her on one of the many stone gargoyles. Toki had done a good job in its placement, far back in the room under the cover of shadow. It was inevitable how day gave into night and night gave way to day. Mordhaus was most expansive and riddled with corridors and dungeons and even dark chasms, should one choose to explore it in its entirety. The place had a presence within itself, malevolent and sour to those unaccustomed to it. Even Dethklok who resided on the upper levels did not know much about the other parts of the castle beyond where they lived, where things darker than their own interpretations of the word took place underground, black and still and unnoticed. The young shinobi, or ninja, as they are more commonly known nowadays, had resided and flourished in those blacker places in the 'Haus that had no windows since her arrival over a year ago. Mordhaus was a true monument of Hell on earth, and someone had finally shown up to inhabit all the unused space. Even in these dark places, light would still shine through, no matter how little. The sun rose and set long before mankind made his debut on Earth, and it would rise and set long after his demise. Some things would simply never change, and in these moments just before the rest of the 'Haus woke, Makkuro would find solace and reflection in that small period.

The Gears often whispered among themselves as more and more of them met their ends in ways far less predictable than their job descriptions called for; some began to get rather suspicious and suspected a traitor. Others were more superstitious, suspecting there was actually a demon in their midst, sent from Hell to punish them for their wrong doings or to aid Dethklok in their endeavors of influencing the world. After all, Dethklok supposedly had summoned a troll. All of this speculation caused a deal of unrest and some disorder among the workers that had not yet lost their lives, with some believing others could not be trusted and others believing they had lost their minds.

Of course, Makkuro had found it quite amusing to be speculated upon, as she had often walked among them unnoticed many a time and had been present for most of the gossip. She was certainly not a demon, but might be considered a traitor in a way, as she had her own agendas based on the codes of the few surviving ninja clans that remained in the world. They were those who truly sought out balance in the world, nature, and people, sometimes having a hand in those events to return that precious equilibrium. Everything was off kilter these days; Things were dying rapidly, people were out to kill their brothers and Dethklok as an entity played a key role in all of this, although somewhat indirectly. And so Dethklok became the main focus of Makkuro of the Tsukino clan, and she had long awaited the opportunity to turn them inside out. Monitoring them had become her project, as ninja often refer to themselves scientists of sorts, however crude they may be, often performing social experiments using themselves as variables.

Watching the sun filter through the huge red paned windows reminded her of blood seeping through a white or light colored cloth draped over a deep wound, reminded her of the blood that was shed so many nights before and the many nights ahead. It was a time she could do away with her mask, revealing her face, however vulnerable it made her. Doing this reminded her that she was still a human being. She was a killer by nature, a murderer, and sometimes it comforted her to bare her face- even if it was to no one at all. That one gesture, of removing the cloth that covered her nose and mouth reminded her of her own mortality, and the lives of the Gears she had taken and she believed it honorable. They had also had faces under the hoods they were designated to wear, and were flesh and blood and human like herself. She always caught herself reflecting on the deeds she had done in the night, and then washing them from her mind as the scarlet hues blanketed the surrounding décor, and wondered if what it would have been like for her to be a normal girl instead of a calculated killer.

It was always in this short time, right before daybreak, when she would ponder her doings and the reactions of the 'Haus staff to them. Other times she would clear her thoughts completely, and simply focus on the room itself, with its many demonic carvings and ragged medieval tapestries. There were old weapons lining the walls simply for the aesthetic tastes of the band. Most of them were of great antiquity, but all equally barbaric and very sharp. There were war axes, claymores, halberds, and daggers of all sorts, and even a few weapons she was familiar with in her line of work. One of them was a katana that was forged by none other than the legendary Japanese sword smith, Masamune. Its value probably rivaled the rest of the weaponry combined; Makkuro had thought of stealing it many a time, but she was sure someone would notice its absence. Katana were more often used by the Samurai in feudal times, while shinobi used the shorter ninjato as it suited their purposes better than a larger and longer blade. Ninja often worked against the Samurai in those earlier days, and although there were no real Samurai in modern times, it would be total irony for a simple ninja to wield the weapon of a fallen warrior and ancient enemy. Makkuro was very fond of irony and that was mainly the reason she coveted a sword that was otherwise very impractical to her.

Today was not a time to sit idly and clear one's thoughts, however. Makkuro was well on her way to being cornered and caught and she had laid the pieces of her puzzle out on the table of her mind, very much like a game of chess. Toki Wartooth would be her first pawn in this game.

Charles Offdensen made his triumphant return only three months ago, and immediately knew something was still amiss. It was only a matter of time before he would catch her, and that was something she had factored into her equations upon his arrival. There were ways around him killing her, but she had to work delicately and concisely; one wrong move or saying the wrong thing could end her. Killing off most of the help around the place was a good start. All good ninja were very adept at making deals, and Makkuro was as good as any (at least she thought so of herself). Killing her way to employment and managing not be killed herself was a challenge in itself; Convincing Dethklok's manager that she alone could take the place of hundreds his dead employees was another matter entirely.

On this particular morning, there was coffee waiting for her, exactly where it should be. It was odd; but Toki had placed exactly in the right place, and she had come down from the heights of the great room to retrieve it, feeling safe about not being noticed. Makkuro never ruled out luck or chance and it was a fortunate find. Many times she cheated death purely on chance, and it was purely chance that she had entered Mordhaus after it had been invaded by another party. Perhaps Toki knew where to place it; but the better part of her knew that it was a fluke, one of those small miracles one could be thankful for. The coffee was in a rather stupid looking vessel, a caricature of the lead Guitarist, Skwisgaar Skwigelf. Makkuro appreciated the gesture, and welcomed it, although she could pilfer refreshments elsewhere. She would leave Toki personal thanks about it later, hoping he could actually read English. Now that she was on the verge of actively being pursued by the band manager, making contact with Dethklok's weakest link the night before had been a smart move. Toki was indeed a good choice, naïve enough to keep a secret and a little vindictive. However, if he did run his mouth, she made it clear she would be quick to silence him. It had been a bluff, but it had worked. She did have a good feeling about this, though. Sometimes it was best to rely on a gut feeling rather than a logical one. Ninja were also very reliable when it came to intuition. After adding her cream and sugar, she thought briefly about it being poisoned, but that was probably not the young man's style; He relied more on brute force as the rest of them did, even the beady-eyed manager leaned on it more than he would probably admit.

For now, she would relish in the light before returning to her subterranean haunts in the pits, to wipe the filth off her weapons and to feed and milk the viper, and perhaps get a little rest. On her way down, she would stop in the kitchen for a bite to eat where she had found a somewhat fragile alliance in the mangled chef, Jon Pierre. He was the only one who knew about her up until she confronted Toki, and had almost done her in with a cleaver when he had discovered her there. He was quite quick when he wanted to be; after all, he was no longer human, but rather the shell of one. He was in tune with his environment and as deadly as Makkuro herself, and fiercely loyal to his Dethklok. The only traits that remained the same about him before he was sewn back together (wrong) were his dedication to Dethklok and his great knowledge of preparing cuisine. She had promised not to hurt Dethklok and that was all it took for him to let her go (rather reluctantly) and she often frequented his haunt in the kitchen for food and some rather strange conversation, mostly involving the fine art of food and cutlery, and also human dismemberment. Apparently, in his reconstruction, the chef had become quite fond of such gory practices and would often take a Gear himself on occasion, "just for practice." Sometimes the ninja had the feeling that he was explaining how he would reward her if she did indeed prove traitorous. Makkuro felt everyone, even Charles, underestimated the poor deranged fellow; he was very deadly and yet very quiet about it. The devils left alone to themselves were often the worst kind of devils. Yet this once human creature could still sense good in people- and apparently sensed some good in Makkuro herself, although she did not know why. He had all too quietly lent a hand in Dethklok's survival without their dear manager, killing off intruders sneaking in due to the lack of security, although he mostly remained hidden from sight.

By the time she had drained her cup, the large room was already fully illuminated, and it was time for Makkuro to make her exit and move on to other things. A quick note was scribbled on a piece of paper, folded into the shape of a crane, and left in the empty mug. There was another band meeting scheduled for today, certainly regarding her charades last night, and she needed to be privy to that one. It would probably go in a predictable direction, with Charles playing the role of the shepherd rounding up his flock of sheep to safeguard them from the dangers he perceived. All of them would protest, and usually Dethklok got their way through whining and generally being obstinate. It had worked with the mail and should work this time around, too. At least one member knew there was no real danger, or so Makkuro made him believe. Toki had already proven himself a useful puppet in her grand charade. When he was out of the picture, it would be easier to manipulate the rest of them… Charles Offdensen included.

Thinking of Charles, Makkuro must have kept the man busy all night, because the normally early riser hadn't yet awoken. She had become rather accustomed to him being the first one awake. Before leaving post on the on the support beams, she noticed Pickles the drummer staggering off to his corridor toting a newsletter of some sort. He seemed more interested in this one than the hundreds of others he had received, and she would be paying a visit to his room to investigate. It might prove to be nothing at all (and probably was), or something very useful. It was rare for any of the musicians to be concerned about the world around them other than their own existence. First there was that meeting she needed to listen in on that was undoubtedly going to happen and she would have to fish out that newsletter out of from underneath all the empty liquor bottles and groupie's undergarments at a later time. That Pickles was quite a pack rat.

Luck was on her side; she would singlehandedly unravel and rearrange Dethklok. She would start with Toki and work her way up the food chain. Makkuro would show them all what darkness truly meant- She would show them _real_ metal, harsh and lonely and cold.


End file.
